


Some kind of monster

by Hermit9



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Crowley, Bird Feeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Castiel buys a harp, Castiel is annoyed, Crowley wants to be friends, Gen, POV Castiel, suit envy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-08 21:42:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11655297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: After leaving the Bunker and the Winchesters, Castiel attempts to earn his penance (again) by tracking down the escaped Lucifer. Crowley tagging along is both a blessing and a curse, the silver-tongued devil an asset during the investigations. If only he didn’t drive Castiel out of his mind.Set during and around “American Nightmare” up to “Rock Never dies”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN Canon BigBang
> 
> Art by the awesome [Dmsilvisart](https://dmsilvisart.tumblr.com/post/163663371188/artwork-masterpost-for-some-kind-of-monster/)

Lucifer wasn’t stupid. The best and brightest of Abel’s line were the Campbells, raised and trained as hunters. They would stall him and call the Winchesters despite the feud if he tried for them. Instead, he was trawling up and down the weaker bloodlines, the illegitimate children of illegitimate children. Bastards and orphans. There was a lot of them and he was in no particular hurry. 

What Castiel hadn’t expect was for Lucifer to center his search around Detroit. He’d figured the archangel would avoid the city and the reminder of the apocalypse that almost was. Or, maybe that was the very thing that drew the Devil in. The ice cold and fading threads of his own grace, maybe a memory of Sam saying “yes”. Or, maybe he had a more human sense of humor than most would think, and sought the city that still burned every Halloween’s eve in his name. 

They’d followed the trails of burnt vessels here. Lucifer was, at least, attempting to remain hidden, tasking two low-grade demons to dispose of the corpses. It made his trail easy enough to follow, but every time he’d reach the end of a family tree they were at a loss. And with their best chance sent to the bottom of the ocean they had reached exactly that. Unfortunately for Castiel, while Crowley would be able to pick up the trail if the demons moved again, in the meantime it meant the re-established King of Hell wanted to _bond_. 

Castiel knew this was what he was trying to do, both from his years with the Winchesters and from his own time as a human. He just had no real enjoyment in the ritual. Shots reminded him of Ellen and Jo, before the hellhounds. Most liquors reminded him of trying to get properly drunk until Sam had called him. Both occasions had required more alcohol than was acceptable to imbibe in one evening. He knew; the bartenders at the two previous bars had cut him off. 

If Castiel was perfectly honest with himself, working with Crowley wasn’t the worst thing he could be doing. He’d worked with the demon before, and while that had ended catastrophically, this was much simpler. Their interests would coincide up to Lucifer’s death and there was little to gain from double-crossing each other. Crowley was smoother on the interrogation, able to get them started with witnesses and grieving families. He knew how to communicate with humans, got the subtlety of language Castiel still stumbled upon. Castiel could provide an analytical overview of the scene, and while he didn’t always understand emotions, he could read them accurately and detect lies with ease.They did make an effective team, on the field. 

The real problem was these after hour zones, in the off-color lights of cheap bars. Castiel was still trying to get a good look at Crowley when he received his drinks.There was no way all of these bars served their Mai Tai with that many umbrellas and a miniature pitchfork. He was fairly certain Crowley was carrying them with him, or snapping them into place himself. It was the most logical explanation. 

“At least our boy Luci is very clear about wanting to be just that,” Crowley said as he sat down, putting the cheapest bottle of beer in front of Castiel. “Makes the genealogy search easier since it strikes through half of the potentials.”

“What?” Castiel grabbed the bottle out of habit. It was lukewarm at best and would promise a disgusting morning if he were human.

“Lucifer. Rather stuck on the male vessels, if you’ve been paying attention.” Crowley smirked over the straw of his drink.

“You’re right, even though it makes no sense. Angels don’t have assigned genders.”

“My point exactly. It’s something he has got to be doing on purpose. Which means we can stop tracking down the matrilineal lines, I think.”

Castiel nodded, taking a swig of the beer to keep up appearances. He knew how to pretend to drink to avoid raising suspicions. It, under perfect circumstances, did not involve him spraying said drink in a shower of spittle as the demon continued to talk. 

“Of course, if you ask me, maybe switching things up is what he needs. Speaking from experience, a little soft vessel, a night out and getting laid once or twice. Might change his view on the whole species genocide program.”

Castiel ignored the glare the barman leveled at him as he choked and tried to wipe the sticky brew from his coat, letting it drip to the floor. He threw a murderous look at Crowley, trying to figure out why his hands were shaking so much.

“What? It’s a suggestion. Maybe after all this isolation, a romp in the hay would do your big brother good.”

Castiel could speak over seven thousand human languages, yet in this moment he had no words to express how preposterous the very idea was. Even barring Lucifer’s extreme dislike of humans, to lay with one of them ( _as stress relief!_ ) would be to break the highest sacred order of Heaven. Even _Lucifer_ would not have fallen that far. The sense memories of his vessel wanted to argue with soft lips and the soft soap scent of April on his skin. With the cold sharp edges of his own angel blade slipping through his ribs. 

“I need air,” said Castiel, stumbling away from the bar. “Don’t wait up.” 

Crowley didn’t answer, smirking again and raising his glass in a mock salute. 

The air outside was cooler, if not actually any cleaner. Castiel could smell the exhausts of too many cars, the sharp and sour tang of a garbage fire behind the bar, and a general sense of decay floating over the city. He took several deep breaths anyway, thinking it would help wash away the taste of sulfur sticking to the roof of his mouth. Crowley was careful about it, almost considerate but the hell taint still followed him. 

Castiel shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his overcoat, playing with the smooth rocks and trinkets he had collected there. He didn’t know which way he was walking, didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to be in the stuffy motel room where neither he nor Crowley slept. He didn’t want the creaky truck he’d commandeered in Kansas after failing, again, the one mission he’d be given.

Walking felt good, though the streets were mostly deserted. The rare groups he passed avoided him, either because he stuck out and looked a bit crazy or because of some instinct to stay away from danger. Castiel didn’t care. He did take the time to chitter at the rats he passed in one alleyway, he didn’t want them to worry, he wasn’t a threat to them. 

A flash of bright green in a store window stopped him. The large red letters painted over the glass professed the place to be a Pawn shop. Castiel leaned to look at the carefully staged display, it was a weird mix featuring a large off-brand bright green toy. The toy looked like the children’s TV puppets he’d seen Dean watch when he thought he was alone. Around it were Rubik’s cubes (with worn and peeling stickers) and brightly colored, round-edged toys for infants and toddlers. 

Curious, he pulled open the door to inspect further inside. The store was clean and dimly lit, with two low, metal shelves filling the space. Glass counters ran around the store, with more shelves on the wall. The left wall held toys, neatly ordered and displayed. They felt as out of place there as they had in the window, a contrast to the second-hand electronics and tools, the impressively varied display of guns and hanging guitars.

“You looking for anything?” 

The man’s voice was rough from too much cigarette smoke and late nights. He was large and burly, hair shaved almost completely off. He had been watching something on a tablet, and the moving light from below cast the planes of his face in strange shadows. Castiel could only see one hand, knuckles calcified in a way that spoke to him of many fights. The second hand was below the counter, out of sight, but a cold pulse of deathly intent from there informed him of the presence of a weapon. 

“No. Just…” Castiel paused and reconsidered. He really wasn’t looking for anything in particular, which was a strange feeling, he wasn’t used to not having a mission. “Why all the toys?”

“Boss will give you a twenty for toys in decent condition.” The man shrugged, shaking his head minutely. “We lose money on them, but he figures that a parent desperate enough to sell their kids toys can use it more then he can.” 

That was a decent and honest answer. “Can I look around?” Castiel asked, waving a hand at the store from where he still stood in the entryway.

“Sure. Let me know if you need help or want to look at anything.” The man turned back to his tablet, but Castiel could feel his attention still on him. He didn’t mind. He knew he looked strange to most humans (and most angels, when it came to that). Seeing what people would be willing to sell, or pressed into parting with, was enlightening. He passed the jewelry display quickly, there was too much lingering sadness on most of the rings. Now that he was closer, he could see that beneath the brightly colored guitars were other instruments: keyboards, oboes, and flutes. Castiel leaned over the display case, looking at the smaller instruments when one caught his eye. It was about sixteen inches long and made out of rosewood, rounded and carved with leaves and birds. Castiel smiled.

“How much for this one?” 

“Thirty. It’s missing the strings. For forty I can throw in a bag to use as a carrying case.”

Castiel patted his clothes until he located his wallet, pulling the slightly crumpled bills Dean had slipped into his pockets when he had left the bunker.

“I’ll take it.”


	2. Chapter 2

The cheap motel room was stiflingly warm when he walked in. The ancient heating unit groaned and pinged as the metal extended, releasing the smell of burnt dust. Both beds were clean and crisply made, which meant Crowley had brought his evening’s entertainment elsewhere. Castiel was grateful for small mercies. There was a half-eaten pizza on the counter, with a note (written in what Castiel didn’t want to look at too closely and hoped was ink) stating that Crowley had gone for coffee. He sighed and turned the thermostat down to a more human level, before carefully tucking the black knapsack into his duffel bag by the bed. 

He had time to resettle with the research and genealogical notes for a full hour before Crowley snapped back into the room. He was carrying a carafe of coffee, black, and from the writing on the urn, from Rome. Castiel knew it was as close to an apology as the demon king could offer, and accepted the offering in the spirit it had been made. He ignored the small twinge of pain from his broken wings, thinking about the distance Crowley has just traveled. 

“I think you are right. We can eliminate, if not the matrilineal lines at least all the female descendants.” Castiel waved at the crossed out names on their list. “Which leaves us fifteen names in this town. Seven of them are children or infants, so we should be able to wrap up quickly.”

“Why in such a hurry, love? Have something lined up next?” Crowley’s voice was very close, one hand on the back of the cheap chair, the other leaning on the table trying to read the notes. His clothes had been cleaned recently and he was wearing what was probably very expensive cologne. There was barely a trace of sulfur on him, and if Castiel wasn’t catching the swirls of red smoke of his true form on the edge of his vision he would have almost believed the human guise. He realized that it was for his benefit, but he was tired and irritated. 

“Because this isn’t a game, Crowley. We lost our best lead because of…” He caught himself, not wanting to hurt the other man, not yet anyway. “Because of Rowena. It doesn’t mean the danger has passed.” 

Crowley laughed, a short expression of disdain and dismissal. “Whatever you say, Agent B. Ready to head out?”

\---

Noah Anderson was a senior partner in a law firm. The firm’s office claimed several floors in a sparkling glass and polished marble lobby building in the so-called good part of town. It also employed private security, a good enough service that their usual fake FBI badges were not going to cut it. Castiel leaned forward on his thighs. The park bench was freshly painted and uncomfortable; metal armrests had been added along the length of it, to prevent the vagrant population from sleeping in the manicured park. He was keeping an eye on the people coming and going from the building, watching with some lassitude the twined strands of stress and greed around the humans’ souls as they went through their day. Crowley was pacing a bit further away, along the river, going through his contracts and seeing if he had any leverage. Castiel wanted to tell him that there was no whiff of Lucifer’s grace in the area, that they were wasting their time. He refrained, mostly because he didn’t have any better leads to suggest. 

“The bloody man is like a saint in a nest of vipers. I’ve had an easier time arranging meetings with Popes.” Crowley settled loudly on the other side of the bench, squinting at his phone and making a show of his annoyance. “I managed to get his day schedule, however. You’re welcome.”

“What’s our window of opportunity?” Castiel didn’t bother rising to the easy taunting. 

“Noon. Apparently, he gets lunch from the same little sandwich shop a few blocks away.”

Castiel nodded and glanced at the sun, calculating its angle in the sky. “What do we do in the interval?”

“I’m going to find some bread and feed the ducks.” Crowley got up and dusted off his suit, looking at Castiel inquiringly.

“That is actually very bad for ducks. Pigeons can eat some bread, on the other hand.”

“Fine.” Crowley rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile there. “I’ll feed the pigeons. You’re buying the bread, come on.”

The pigeons were very chatty. They had flocked to their feet as soon as they had sat down. The new bench had a direct line of sight to the sandwich shop and no metal bars, so it was overall an improvement. Castiel scattered a handful of unsalted sunflower seeds on the ground, watching the birds as they bickered for the seeds and the large chunks of country bread Crowley was tossing them. They didn’t have much information, but they seemed overall appreciative. 

“And there’s our lucky winner of the day.” Crowley snapped the remaining loaf of bread away and brushed his hands together to clean the crumbs. “Are you coming?” Crowley frowned at his shoes and scrapped the left one against the concrete sidewalk a few times before walking towards the restaurant. Castiel dropped the remaining seeds and threw away the bag before following. 

The place was small, more of a coffee shop than a restaurant. It offered three soup choices and two sandwiches, written in playful colors on a chalkboard. This was a Sam place, Castiel noted, classifying the human experience along his personal Winchester scale. There was a large corkboard with community ads on one wall, a shared bookshelf on the other. Most of the tables were small and meant for two people. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that their potential vessel had claimed one of the few available booths, spreading paperwork in front of him. With a slight nod, Castiel sat next to him, while Crowley claimed the seat across the booth, boxing him in. It wasn’t quite synchronized, but Castiel didn’t know how he felt about it. Did he want to get used to working with Crowley to the point of reaching that level of integrated teamwork?

“Listen, guys, whatever you're selling, I'm not buying.” There was annoyance in the man’s voice, but no credible intent followed it. He was muscular, but in a way that spoke of gym schedules and vanity. He wore a bespoke grey suit, not something he’d want to get blood upon. His hands were smooth with manicured nails, matching the subtly colored and highlighted hair (bringing in some red and hiding the grey). “So do us all a favor and choose another table.”

“No,” said Castiel, knowing his voice and tone were surprising and disconcerting for most people. If Crowley’s smirk was any indication, it was working. 

“Mr. Anderson,” said Crowley, with more emphasis on the name than the situation warranted, “we just have a few questions. If you answer them we’ll be on our way and you can enjoy your lunch.”

“If I don't?”

“Several rolls of your pre-law modeling photoshoots end up on the Internet.” He paused for effect. “Periwinkle _really_ is your color.”

Anderson’s lips narrowed to a pale bloodless line. The outside edges were thinner and still upturned as if tiny cuts had been made there. Somewhere, in the mess of cultural references and images Metatron had dumped upon him, Castiel got a fleeting impression of purple and green and bone-white make-up. He let it go. The man was rubbing his face now, fingers lingering over the two moles that punctuated his left eyebrow. His shoulders were curved inward, rounded and defensive. Castiel watched as anger and fear battled briefly before morphing into resigned lassitude.

“What do you want to know?”

“Splendid!” said Crowley, with his best cat ate the canary smile. “See, no need to make things difficult.” He leaned over the table, setting his elbows wide and steepling his fingers with barely disguised glee. “Now, Mr. Anderson —” The drawling emphasis on the word still sounded strange to Castiel. “— tell me about your dreams.”

Castiel let his attention wander. His job at this stage was to be an immovable object; signaling Crowley for any flares, emotional or otherwise. Not that Crowley wasn’t able to discern deceit, it was more of a failsafe system. There was a hum of activity around them now, people shuffling in, claiming the other tables or grabbing orders to go. The high ringing note of the kitchen’s call bell adding a melodic thread through the brouhaha. Castiel felt strangely unmoored as if the melancholy that clung to the rest of the town was suddenly gone. A bubble of space that was not like the quantum superposition of the Biggersons - it was very uniquely here, but a here that could be in any city in North America. He wondered if the humans felt it too; if it was the reason they flocked to it in unlikely numbers. Seeking the liminal spaces as any creatures seek an escape.

He craned his neck to read the ads on the pin board, trying to find something that would tie him back to the city and the time. There were mostly ads for items for sale, cameras and baby cribs and well-used cars with carefully taken photographs. There was also a rainbow of local stores’ business cards, offering anything from pet care to music lessons. Then, in cheaper paper, were the odd ones. Communion with angels (he smirked as he glanced over that one and its spun sugar idol drawing) and lost pets. At the very bottom of the board was a call for participants in a parade to drive out evil from the city. Castiel squinted, trying to read the text that was partially obscured by a bright orange advert for a psychic. A kick to the shin from Crowley brought his attention back to the conversation. 

“We’ll be leaving you alone now, enjoy your lunch,” Crowley said, sliding out of the booth and magnanimously leaving a few bills on the table. “Oh, before we go, may I have the number for your tailor?” 

Castiel rolled his eyes and stood up as well, glancing back at the board but not finding the flyer for the parade right away. He followed Crowley out of the restaurant, still frowning.

“Well, that was a waste of time.” Crowley shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, more petulant and dejected than angry. “Did you pick up anything useful?”

“Maybe. Might be nothing.” Castiel looked around them. They were across the street from their bench. He noticed a slightly singed pile of feathers by the right side of the bench, wondering if they had always been there. He could see the sign of one of the music stores that had been on display inside the restaurant, a block or two down the street. He started walking that way, paying no attention to Crowley’s sputtered indignation.

“Since when do you go on shopping sprees?” asked Crowley, catching up to him. 

“Does it matter? I thought you were in no hurry.” Castiel smirked as he pulled open the door, enjoying turning the previous conversation around. There was a loud, recorded chime as they entered. Castiel went straight to the counter, asking the clerk for the items he was looking for and paid quickly before Crowley could start prying. As he put away his wallet, he noticed the pile of neatly folded home-made flyers by the cash. He picked one up, slipping the small plastic bag in his coat’s pocket and walking out. 

“Found what you were looking for?” Crowley asked. “Can we go back to trying to save the world?”

Castiel nodded, reading the flyer. Organizers for “The Marche du Nain Rouge” were looking for participants to help scare something called the Red Dwarf away from the city and chase away his evil. He squinted at the stylized artwork and flipped the page over, trying to see if there was more information. There wasn’t.

“This is wrong,” he said. 

“Hm?” Crowley was curious, picking the paper from the angel’s hands and reading it for himself.

“The red man. He’s an omen of things to come, of death and tragedy, mostly seen around Strasbourg. I don’t understand how chasing him out would prevent the evil he is warning about.”

“Might be worth looking into,” said Crowley. “If this creature is really here, he might be able to point us in the direction of the real evil.”

Castiel nodded. It was a lead he was more comfortable following. Creatures were easier to talk to, in all cases. 


	3. Chapter 3

Research turned out to be much easier than on usual hunts. The city not only had a recorded history of sightings from the Nain Rouge stretching back to the colonial era, but the parade revival in the last few years had drummed up interest as well. Castiel was quickly able to cobble together the story of the city founder’s encounter with the Nain Rouge. There were a few versions, but all of them took place along the river. He pushed the last, bright red pin into the map with a satisfied sigh. This was the part of the hunt he felt at ease with, the coalescing of information and tactical approach. It was soothing to be trusted with something that didn’t leave him reeling and off balance. 

Castiel glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was well in the afternoon. There were no messages on his phone, so Crowley must still have been with their leads, or wherever he went when Castiel wasn’t shadowing him. He hovered over the contact information for Dean for a moment before putting the phone away. Both Winchesters were likely still in Iowa working on their own hunt, no need to disturb them.

Castiel sat on the edge of his bed, mindful to avoid the weakened spot on the mattress where springs were coiled like so many tetanus-laden claws. He pulled the the small cardboard package from the music store out of his pocket. He unzipped the black knapsack and left it to drop in his duffel, allowing himself to smile as he ran his fingers over the swirls of the plants and the silhouette of songbirds. The wood was smooth and a bit worn, but well oiled and not cracking. He quickly unwrapped the smaller package, taking each string and carefully threading them through the lower body of the instrument and up through the metal tuning pins. He was carefully worrying the last nickel string, gently working the metal fatigue to its snapping point when Crowley returned.

“Just for the record, if hellhounds end up making a snack out of our Mr. Daniel Caulkins in about four years time, it had nothing to do with today. On the other hand, Ms. Ganim’s lovely twins have been sleeping soundly like the babies they are and only burped curdled milk over me once.” He tossed his soiled jacket unto the bed and turned to properly look at Castiel. “Blimey, is that really a harp?”

“It’s a lyre,” said Castiel, frowning and plucking each string to verify the pitch. 

“Ah yes, totally different. Can’t wait to tell Squirrel about it.”

Castiel rolled his eyes in annoyance. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he said, putting the instrument back in it’s carrying case. “Most of the reports were after dark, in accordance to the original story about the first sighting by Antoine Laumet de La Mothe Cadillac ” he added, waving towards the map. “I figured we could try walking there and see if there’s any truth to them.” 

Crowley hummed in agreement, staring sadly at his vest, which apparently had not been spared. “There’s still daylight. Let’s see how fast this tailor can work.”

\---

The tailor worked fast enough to adjust and fit an off-the-rack suit before closing, seeing as Crowley was also ordering a few bespoke suits and paying cash. Castiel had stood quietly aside, as the thin, graying man took measurements with crisp efficiency. There had been books of fabric samples everywhere, and he had focused on the way the different fibers and weavings felt as he turned each swatch, squinting at the names. 

Later, they hiked up the river’s west bank, making their way from the historical Fort Wayne to the Riverside Park the pins had highlighted. As they walked, Castiel found himself playing with the soft and fraying edges of his own jacket, below the overcoat. 

“Leave it or fix it,” said Crowley, avoiding Castiel’s eyes but smirking slightly. “The suit isn’t your issue anyways.” 

“I don’t have an issue.”

“Sure you don’t.” Crowley shrugged in a placating manner. “I’m sure this is how Jimmy dressed when you first jumped his bones, so to speak. And because Jimmy was very pious and devout he wasn’t very big on the whole vanity thing, I gather.” He turned to look at Castiel, raising an appraising eyebrow like he was sizing him up. “I’ll go as far as guess that the suit he was wearing had been a gift from the wifey.” 

Castiel didn’t answer, trying to stay focused on their task, scanning ahead of them as far as he could see with human senses down the dark alleys between buildings. Their surroundings had gradually gone from commercial to industrial, getting progressively more deserted and run down. A single light shone above the door of an auto-repair shop a bit ahead. Only the sparse street lights broke the bleakness that followed the sunset. He didn’t want to dig into James Novak’s memories. It felt like an invasion of privacy, as foreign as that concept had once been to him.

“Why do you think Amelia was involved?” he asked after a while, to dismiss Crowley’s smug expression.

“Because it fits like something someone else bought for you. Fits nicely enough. Bit too big in the chest, but you might just be working out more than he was. So when you had to get a new one you got the same thing out of habit.”

Castiel couldn’t deny it. It’s exactly what he had done after Purgatory. He’d tweaked the color from grey to navy blue but kept the rest the same. It had felt right. 

“So, as I was saying, the suit is perfectly tolerable. What’s messing you up is the coat. It’s the wrong color on you, frankly. And the wrong cut, too short and too small in the arms. You could do better.”

Castiel stopped walking and raised his hand. Thankfully the signal was universal enough that Crowley’s words about French milled fabric and proper sizing died on his lips. Castiel squinted, trying to pinpoint where the flash of red he had seen had gone. They had reached the Riverside Park, deserted at this time. The concrete pier was fenced off with a heavy chain and padlock, border services warnings overly bright against the rusty metal. The grass was a bit too long and yellow, dying of a lack of water or care, trampled in placed by foot traffic. 

Castiel gestured to the right with two fingers and Crowley stepped in that direction, the two of them fanning out and circling the only object left as plausible cover in this part of the park. It was probably meant to be a whale, something friendly for the young kids to climb over and conquer. But the electric blue paint was peeling now, revealing the pale concrete and plaster construction beneath. It looked like something mummified, gasping for air that would never come, blind empty eyes staring at the unforgiving, starless sky. Castiel felt an odd pang of kinship with it. 

There, behind the whale, he caught sight of the thing again, a blur of red, more solid than demon smoke but strangely shapeless and undefined. He took a few steps closer and it suddenly condensed and resolved into a spectacularly ugly man, maybe as tall as his knee and seemingly made of folded flesh and wrinkles. The red man growled and spit at Castiel and started running in the opposite direction, only to stop short in his track and claw at his neck. Crowley stood a few feet away, hand outstretched with a quasi-nonchalant cant to his wrist. His eyes grew a few degree larger as the thing became amorphous again, stretching and contorting out of his telekinetic grasp. Castiel had a glimpse of blood red fur, long ears, and muscular legs before it leapt inside the whale’s mouth. 

Castiel raised his eyes to meet Crowley’s, who shrugged and shooed him to step closer. He manifested his angel blade, finding comfort in the solid weight in his hand as he stepped toward to the blue concrete. A long pointed tail flicked out, making him squint in confusion. Two bright red, luminescent eyes looked up at him before the thing jumped out, now smooth red and leathery, like a Halloween devil. Castiel sidestepped to avoid the ghoulish bite, rotating his blade easily into a downward grip and slicing the back of the creature’s leg. It hissed and started loosing its shape again.

“Oh, bollocks,” said Crowley. He gestured his hands down, flattening a wide area around them. Castiel could hear the dry grass crackling, and even he could feel the pressure of the power on his back. It wasn’t enough to send him to his knees, but it would have been if his grace had been a little lower. The creature made a high pitched noise and squirmed, but stopped making any progress in trying to escape. “How many descriptions were there in the lore?” asked Crowley.

“Several. I thought it was due to shock and embellishment.” 

“I’ve seen this before. Not often. They get chalked up as demons most of the time, which causes no end of trouble for us, as you can imagine.” Crowley walked closer and grabbed at the amorphous creature. “They take the shape you expect of them. I wasn’t expecting anything in particular and you were expecting all of them, which is annoying.” He tightened his grip around what was clearly an arm now. “Let’s say we all agree on dwarf. Then we can talk”.

Castiel nodded and concentrated on the dwarf-like descriptions, weeding through them until he had only one image in his mind. The creature shrunk and solidified, into a humpbacked and cloven foot red man, wearing thorn black pants. He was bleeding, a thick sap like substance, from where the angel blade had cut the tendons behind his right knee. 

“There we go,” said Crowley. “Isn’t that better? Now, everybody keep their appendages inside the ride.” He snapped his fingers and travelled them away. The building was musty in the way of old, boarded up, abandoned places, the air laced with rodent dropping and mildew. Wooden boards covered the windows, though light filtered through rotten patches of the roof. No human would come wandering in; it was perfect on short notice. 

Moving slowly, Castiel crouched in front of the dwarf. He made a show of pulling up his sleeves, like a magician before a trick, proving his blade was gone now. He reached with his hand, intent on healing the creature, and watched with curiosity as the grace was absorbed into the dwarf holistically rather than just the wound. Still, the blood stopped flowing. 

“My apologies for hurting you,” said Castiel. “I am looking for an omen.”

The dwarf sat up as slowly as Castiel had moved, seemingly evaluating if he was still a threat, eyes shifting from him to Crowley and to the surrounding building. 

“ _Je vous écoute_ ,” it said. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Je vous écoute_ = I'm listening.


	4. Chapter 4

They were sitting in a different café, still affluent but a lot less comfortable than the soup and sandwich shop. Castiel hated it. He was pretty sure Crowley hated it too, which meant they were for once in a rare agreement. 

The coffee tasted wrong, which was the first crime. It tasted of rancid oils and of an under-cleaned espresso maker. According to Crowley the second crime was the food option. The avocado smeared bread with too many seasonings on it had discreetly vanished from his plate. Castiel was almost sure the smile he had seen on Crowley’s face meant it was going to be used as torture for someone in his dungeons. Castiel, for his part, was more than a bit angry about the house-brand vegan cat food being sold in burlap sacks with hand painted labels by the till. He failed to see how even the most annoying cat deserved to be slowly starved to death. 

The man they had come to meet was chain smoking cigarettes, which was probably the reason he seemed to find no fault with the coffee and ate the food with enthusiasm. 

“You saw him? I mean you really saw him? I thought he was a myth, well, of course, he’s a myth, but more like a metaphor, not a real thing that exists in this world.” The man was called Nicolas Burgess and he styled himself an "anomalistic researcher." Pretty much everything about him set Castiel on edge. 

“Yes, we saw him. Had a fight with him. Then a nice long talk,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “Which is why we’re here talking to you, despite having other places to be.

“That’s fantastic. In all my research this is the first direct encounter with the Nain.”

“There are things bigger and stranger than him,” said Castiel. “Bigfoot is a hoax, however.” It was one of Dean’s lines, it usually made people laugh. Castiel watched in dismay as Burgess’ face fell like he had just told him the worst news in the world.

“Moving on,” said Crowley, trying to cover for the obvious blunder. “We’re here to fulfill our side of our deal with the Nain. So, how, exactly, can we help this counter parade of yours flourish?”

“Well… money would be nice for one. We attract a few more people every year, money would help with better publicity while keeping things friendly. We want to avoid confrontation.”

“Money, of course, money. Everyone wants bloody money.” Crowley looked at Castiel appraisingly. Castiel shook his head and frowned in answer. No, he wasn’t allowing Crowley to seal it with a kiss. 

“But I have to ask,” Burgess continued, completely unaware of the silent discussion. “Why? Why does it care?”

Castiel turned back to him. “There was a writer who said ‘There are three deaths. The first is when the body ceases to function. The second is when the body is consigned to the grave. The third is that moment, sometime in the future, when your name is spoken for the last time.’ This is very much like that.” He watched the blank face of the man and knew he had not been understood. “Your Nain is defined by the belief and stories you share about him. He’d like a bit more of the nicer stories to be told. So that he can be shaped by them for a while.” 

Before Burgess could answer there was an ear-splitting scream from a table across the room. Castiel stood up and reached for his angel blade, scanning the café for signs of danger. There had been no sounds of attack, no breaking glass. The barefooted waiters looked as stunned and confused as the other patron. The woman who had screamed started making self-fanning movements with her hands while pointing at her phone for her companion to read. 

“Vince Vincente just announced a Lady Hearts reunion! With new songs and a tour! I have to call my mom!”

Castiel crossed the space in three steps and grabbed the phone, squinting at the text. There was an embedded video with a smiling Vincente, looking none the worse for wear. He met Crowley’s eye and nodded.

“Bollocks,” said Crowley. He turned back to Burgess. “You’ll have your money. I’ll be in touch.”

Castiel gave the phone back to the increasingly upset woman and walked back to them. 

“Do you want to call the chuckleheads?” asked Crowley.

Castiel paused as he was walking out, then spun his angel blade and sliced open the burlap sacks of so-called cat food. “Let’s go,” he said.

Crowley laughed. “You call them. I need a drink.”

***

Later, after the fight and the victory that wasn't one, they retreated to the hotel to lick their wounds. Crowley’s word had held true - the hotel's concierge gave them keys as they walked in, no questions asked. The rooms were nice, not suites but large and separated by double doors. Anonymous and easily defended. Crowley himself had vanished, either to repair his host in relative privacy or to seek other company, Castiel was not sure.

Both Sam and Dean had declined offers to be healed, stating that their wounds were too superficial to waste grace upon. It had not been a point worth debating with them. Castiel knew both brothers were using the pain and aches in their own way, as a tether or as penance. Truth be told he was glad of it. Repairing his own vessel, knitting back broken ribs and torn ligaments, had depleted his limited reserve of grace. He felt drained and bone tired. Cold, too, and the slight tremors sent pangs of pain along his mangled wings.

He looked at the bed and its high thread count, softened and bleached sheets. He didn’t want to be lying there and comfortable. Felt that he didn't deserve it. Castiel grabbed his bag and sat against the locked doors that lead to the room the Winchesters shared, where he would be near if they should need help.

The carpet was plush underneath him, pleasantly neutral in color, clean and new. He ran his fingers around the threads, wondering if it felt as wrong to the Winchesters as it did to him, or if he felt it was alien because of them. Both, most likely.

Castiel pulled his lyre from his bag, leaning his head against the wood of the door, letting his fingers roam and pluck at the strings. Music and harmonics were but waves and mathematics. It came easy.

The clean, high pitched chords were the wrong tone, but the song was still the same. Castiel could hear Dean behind the door, sitting as he was and surrounded by the tinkling sound of the minibar’s assortment of liquors. He knew Dean could hear him, but on the other side of the door was plausible deniability. As he reached the chorus he smiled; Dean was softly singing along.

The red man’s words came back to Castiel, and he wondered if he could be this brave. Could he face the day he would no longer think of himself as an Angel of the Lord, but as something else? Something that might be able to feel and touch. Love, maybe? He smiled as the last notes of “Some kind of Monster” spilled from his fingers and he started the bass line from “Enter Sandman”.

Not now. But, yes, maybe. He could learn to love this new shape for himself he was drawing in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration from this story largely lifted from [this article](https://m.metrotimes.com/detroit/the-legend-of-the-legend-of-detroits-nain-rouge/Content?oid=2404384).


End file.
